Thursday, 31 August 2017

On a Terminal Diagnosis.

On a Terminal Diagnosis.

If I were to have one tomorrow, next year, ten years hence, how would I feel and what would I do?

I think I would feel a sense of relief before all else. If you have tried to kill yourself, then the blameless exit would feel like a grace. Of course there are all the blames of one’s lifestyle, one’s weakness, one’s disregard for longevity. Yet one avoids the damning act of finishing it, and hurts one’s loves less.

The thought of the process of dying - the pain, the embarrassment, the sheer indignity of the failing functions of the body - they hold little terror for me: firstly I know what it feels like to be so ill that one actively wishes for death; secondly, my friends will attest to the fact that I have a more than ordinary capability for laughing at embarrassing situations; thirdly, que sera sera.

There would be immense regret of course. I have been faced with imminent violent death more times than is fair for one life, and I neither include risky sports such as climbing or mountaineering or dangerous sea swimming, nor living in such unfortunate place as whichever war-zone is a la mode de toujours. Yet that regret is instant when faced with the immediate. There would be time to dwell on regret, and I hope and trust I shall be able to break it down into the many fractions of the resignation I have known before.

We are shaped by our upbringing. I ended up in a random conversation with a lone woman in a pub garden today. We both came from the same grotty town, and she had had some deleterious experiences in her growing up. So I returned the favour, and I was both amused in confirmation, and shocked in how appalled she was at the story of my childhood and youth. The thought of suicide first visited me before I was five. I know this both from factual dating of my family history and also my personal history. Sadly, it has never gone away.

So, that might be how I might feel. How would I like to spend my last two or three months?

With all my loved ones beside me of course. There would be impracticalities to that. I would hope they would be overcome in the circumstance. But also I should like to do some things that I would be too cowardly to attempt now. I would like to solo A Dream of White Horses for instance. I should like to stretch my swimming capability in the deep and cold sea to my utmost. So, a tent on Caer Gybi it is!

And last, but by no means least, one last loving fuck.

Tuesday, 7 February 2017

ESA50 again! Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!

Mental, Cognitive and Intellectual Capabilities.

(11). Learning how to do tasks.

Um… errr... what?

(12). Awareness of hazards or danger.

Shit, whoops!

(13). Starting and finis

(14). Coping with changes.

Turn and face the strain
(Ch-ch-Changes)
Don't have to be a richer man

(Ch-ch-ch-ch-Changes)

Turn and face the strange
(Ch-ch-Changes)
Don't want to be a better man,

Time may change me
But I can't trace time

(15). Going out.

May I wear split-crotch panties and nipple tassles?

(16). Coping with social situations.

Fookin’ ‘it ‘em!

(17). Behaving appropriately.

She studied the infernal fucking machine, reached out a finger, and traced the lengths of the glistening steel probes. She squatted over her partners mouth, and slowly dropped a long turd between her perfectly made-up lips, and between her exquisite teeth. Igor came in with the donkeys.

(18). Eating and drinking.

I’ll have a large Lagavulin please, and a salami enema. Ta love.

Face to face assessment.

No thanks, but if I have to, byddai i yn hoffi fy asesu yn Gymraeg.